The Prisoner's Dilemma

Chapter Three

January 2004

El Tigerito, Peru

Andes Highlands

Jack hovered in the fugue-like state between awareness and sleep, a state of grace, disconnected from deep loss and bitterness. 

"Juan?"

Someone was calling him. He fought toward wakefulness, and as a gentle hand lay on his brow, the throbbing pain in his leg finished the job. 

Jack struggled to speak past the dryness in his mouth. "Irina?" he said hoarsely.

"No," the voice said. "It is Carmelita. You had Laura call and bring you here."

It all came back with the force of a thunderclap. Jack opened his eyes, focused on Carmelita. "Laura is not here," he said tersely. Laura never existed. Now Irina taunted him with her lies. 

"She is on the roof, keeping watch," Carmelita said warily.

"The hell she is."

"Juan. You are not to grow angry or rage and stomp and swear. Argue with her when you are well."

Jack struggled to rise, but found himself held back by Carmelita's hands as well as the discomfort in his leg. Exhausted, he fell back onto the cot. 

"You will rest," the doctor insisted. "And I will give you morphine so that you will sleep past next week if you do not stay down."

Knowing he had lost the argument - for the present at least - Jack acquiesced. 

Carmelita paused, gauging the degree of Jack's cooperation, then said, "I have to examine your leg again." 

As the doctor checked his vitals and examined the wound, Jack asked, "Tell me -- she brought me here?"

"Sí."

"She's not to be trusted," he ground out. 

Carmelita leaned close to him and held his gaze. "Your life was in her hands, Juan. She worried for you. I have seen it many times in the eyes of loved ones. I know the look."

"It was a lie."

She placed a hand on his shoulder, urging him to settle down. "Life and death, these are easy things, are they not? The borders are clear. When the choice was live or die, she chose to help you. And in that moment, the rest did not matter. The complications will come later; face them when you are stronger."

"I'm too tired to argue, Tía."

"Then do not argue," the doctor said. "I am glad I could help you, Juan. And I speak as someone who is grateful her friend is still alive, even if he is not."

Jack tried to speak, but couldn't find his voice. He swallowed and said, "Thank you,Tía. I am very grateful for your help. As always."

"Your life is not a small or worthless thing," she told him sternly. "I would like for you to take more care with it."

Jack didn't know what to say to that. Carmelita had always been astute as well as skilled. Still, he was chagrined that she could see through him so easily. 

"I have never met anyone," she continued as she tucked him in with an alpaca wool blanket, "who can speak so loudly without ever uttering a word. Find your voice, Juan. Make someone hear you. Whether it is me, or a priest, or the woman upstairs." She fixed him with a stern eye. "Perhaps you should speak to Pedro the bull, who lives in the field outside town?"

"That may be the best option," Jack admitted.

"And now you choose to be reasonable," she teased gently. "The stitches are in place. I see no infection in the wound. Even so, this insult was not to your pride only. Healing will be slow, and it will go slower if you do not take your time to heal. Are you in pain?"

"It's fine," Jack said flatly.

The doctor tsked at him. "Since you are in pain, I will give more fluids, and a little morphine. That will hold you for a few hours."

Jack almost protested the morphine, but the absence of pain was appealing. He was aware of her moving around his cot, adjusting his IV drips and his blankets, and then he slid back into sleep.

July 2003

Los Angeles, California

Green Hills Cemetery

Jack wasn't listening to the eulogy. He was only peripherally aware of the flow and cadence of the speaker's voice, the chatter of sparrows in the tree above the grave site. Instead, he thought of Francie Calfo, and of Sydney.

The Calfos sat in the front row, clinging to one another and their family. Unaware the coffin held not their daughter, but her murderer's remains. Sydney's murderer. 

It was unclear exactly when Allison Doren killed Francie and replaced her. The best assessment was in February, just after the Alliance had been eliminated. It was an injustice that the Calfo's couldn't know who they were burying, and why. That their daughter was dead at all. It was a travesty.

But at least now they could hear the kind words, embrace their family, and know their daughter was at peace.

You're not a choirboy anymore, Jack, he thought cynically. If there was peace in the world you'd be the one in a box and Sydney would still be alive.

He took a deep, steadying breath, swallowing his grief and rage. Maintaining composure. This was not his day, it was the Calfos'.

And since Sydney couldn't be here, he would be. 

"Jack?" Will Tippin's voice broke through his reverie. The service had ended, chairs had been pushed back, and small clusters of people were speaking quietly and reverently to one another across the lawn. 

"Yes," Jack said automatically. "We should pay our respects," he added.

Will knew many of the attendees, and Jack held back as he greeted his friends. A few people recognized Jack, and approached him warily, but determined to acknowledge him. He returned their condolences in kind until he and Will reached Francie's parents. 

He took Mrs. Calfo's hand and wondered if he looked as shattered as they did. He didn't doubt it. Neither she nor her husband seemed capable of speaking, and Jack swallowed back his emotion to say, "I'm sorry for your loss. I have... fond memories of Francie. I know how much Sydney loved her."

That was too much for Francie's mother. She squeezed his hand, almost painfully, but could not speak. Her father grabbed Jack's shoulder and nodded. "Thank you, Mr. Bristow. We are grieving for Sydney, too. You should know that."

That was almost too much for Jack. He nodded, felt the grief threaten to melt into tears. With another steadying breath, he held it back, then thanked them and stood aside to pull himself together as Will embraced Francie's parents. Will himself was healing, but still pale and weak. When Will was done, he walked haltingly to Jack. He sighed and said, "I'm ready."

Jack matched Will's pace back to his car. When they were settled in, Will said, "Thanks for the ride."

"It was nothing," Jack replied and turned the ignition.

"Is there somewhere we can talk?"

"I'm not in the mood for conversation." Realizing it came out harsher than he meant, Jack admitted, "It's been a draining day."

"I know. But you're the only person I know for sure I can trust right now."

There was an edge in the younger man's voice, and Jack immediately switched to business mode. "I understand." He shifted into gear, leaving the funeral behind.

At Jack's apartment, he ushered Will in and poured him two fingers of whiskey in an old-fashioned glass. Jack took his own drink and sat across from him in a deep leather armchair. "What," he asked as he swirled the drink before taking a sip, "do you need to trust me about?"

Will took a drink and pursed his lips in appreciation. "Nice." He settled into his seat, his bright blue eyes glancing over Jack's furnishings. After an interval he said, "The CIA wants to hide me."

"Yes," Jack said. "That is standard procedure, given the circumstances. Your situation is still considered dangerous."

"Which is why we've been hanging out, right?"

"I don't...'hang out,'" Jack said. "But I am concerned with your safety. And I...appreciate the support and friendship you've given Sydney over the years." He took another drink to cover a near-loss of composure.

"Thank you," Will said seriously. "For everything."

"Has the agency contacted you to initiate the move?"

"Yes. And that's why I want to talk to you." Restless, Will set aside his drink and stood, took a few halting steps around the room, and ended up gazing out the window. "They've hid me before. It's never gone well. To be honest, Jack, I'm not exactly confident in the government's commitment to my safety."

"Or in the agency's security standards?" Jack supplied.

He turned to face Jack, hands on his hips. "Yeah. That sums it up."

Jack set his glass on his knee and considered. "I'm unable to argue on the CIA's behalf," he admitted.

"Can you do it? Hide me. I don't know if I'm allowed to ask, if it's too much to ask. But I'd feel better for myself, and more importantly for my family, my parents, my sister, if you did it. I'm making all kinds of crazy assumptions here, but I have the feeling you could do it. Off the books."

"Off the books..." Jack said slowly, considering the idea. 

"Yeah. Please don't shoot me for asking."

"No." When Will turned to look at him, he added, "I won't shoot you for asking." He took another swig of whisky. "How does Sudbury, Canada sound?"

Will broke into a relieved smile. "Cold."

"It is that," Jack said into his glass.

January 2004

El Tigerito, Peru

Andes Highlands

A sharp ache greeted Jack upon awakening. His leg throbbed, the pain radiating from his toes to his back. The best way he knew to counter pain was to focus his attention on action, on forward motion. He pried his eyes open, blinking in the late afternoon sunlight. Or was it early morning? The injury and the medications obscured his sense of time. He rifled through his memories. Peru. Gunshot wound. Carmelita. Irina.

A jolt of adrenaline kicked in. He turned his head, searching the room, and immediately found her. Irina. Sitting in a chair by his cot, intently reading a worn copy of a tourist magazine.

The sunlight - or was it his bleary eyes - framed her hair in a halo. He braced himself for the wave of longing, the jolt of pain in his gut that always accompanied her presence. 

Her presence was, in fact, a surprise. She could have easily left at any point last night. Her actions were not significant, he reminded himself, and sure as hell not altruistic. Irina had her own reasons for everything she did, and was capable of any type of behavior as long as it furthered her own purposes -- and she didn't share her agenda with anyone.

He bitterly recalled the Panamanian fiasco some months earlier. He had expected her to betray him, but dared hope that she wouldn't. Hope was no longer an emotion in his repertoire.   

Irina put aside her magazine and eyed him critically. "How are you feeling?"

"Fine," Jack said flatly.

As he half-expected, Irina ignored the implicit demand for privacy. She stepped beside his cot and considered the monitor that displayed his vital signs. Jack couldn't see the readout from his point of view, and if he were honest with himself, he didn't feel well enough to sit up and look. 

Seemingly satisfied, she looked down at him. "La Doctora says you'll live."

Jack ground his teeth, willing her to go away. "Yes."

Irina's face went carefully neutral. "Are you still in pain?"

"I'm fine," Jack said. She didn't need to know. He was not physically or mentally prepared to deal with Irina. He didn't look at her, hoping to end the conversation.

He felt a tug on the dressing on his injured thigh and braced himself for the indignity of her probing. He was in no position to stop her. Better to not give her the satisfaction of the argument.

Her fingers were surprisingly gentle, and he released the breath he had been holding. Irina lifted the edge of the bandage enough so she could see the wound. She grunted in satisfaction and secured the bandage again.

Jack felt the uncomfortable silence stretch on. Unwilling to look at her, he stared at the ceiling and considered his options. Asking her intentions was futile, but Jack opted for it regardless. If nothing else, her evasion should prove instructive.  

"You're still here."

"You thought I wouldn't be." She paused to look him in the eye. "I'm not your enemy, Jack."

"Fascinating," Jack said in clipped, precise tones normally reserved for reciting geometry proofs. He hadn't intended to speak to her, but the words that had been bottled up inside him burst out of their own volition. "You're right, an enemy would have killed me on sight; a neutral adversary would have let me die. You did neither. What are you then? An opportunist. You need me for something, but you won't tell me why, preferring, no doubt, to manipulate me in some fashion. But you know what? I don't care anymore. There's nothing that you or anyone else can do that could make matters worse."

Irina frowned, her eyes narrowing. "That's what this comes down to? You're hurting? I see. How convenient," she said dryly. "I'm sure Sydney would love to know that you're using her death as an excuse to give up."

 "Don't." Jack bit off his words fiercely. "Don't presume to know what I am planning."

"And don't assume you know what I'm feeling!" she shot back.

Jack closed his eyes and clenched his jaw. "Then why are you here?"

"You needed my help," she said simply. Irina re-wrapped his leg as they talked.

Jack paused, momentarily disarmed by her candor. "Thank you for that."

"You're welcome. What were you doing at that compound? Besides trying your best to get yourself killed?"

"Obtaining intel. Did you destroy a Rambaldi device?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Sydney." Her voice tripped over her daughter's name. "Her death is a consequence of Sloane's obsession. I told you once that I...lost myself in Rambaldi. Now, I wish to God I hadn't heard of him."

Jack inhaled deeply, and asked hoarsely, "You can connect Sloane, definitively, to Sydney's murder?"

"Not definitively, no. I have my suspicions."

"Which are?" Jack prompted. Here they were, coolly discussing Sydney's death as if it were another mission, another of the thousands of strategic assessments he had made over the course of his lifetime. He had approached it as such, falling into old, familiar patterns as a way of coping with the loss. 

He had spoken about it with so few people, and even those conversations were cut to monosyllables. But now, speaking to Irina about Sydney brought it all home with a finality he had not allowed himself to accept.

Irina returned to her chair. Closing her eyes briefly to gather her thoughts, she said, "When I escaped CIA custody, Sark told me that he had made a back-door deal with Sloane. This deal included the placement of an operative within our daughter's home."

Jack's lips pressed into a thin line. "So Sloane and Sark placed Francie's murderer. Sydney's murderer?"

"Yes."

Jack let out a sharp, humorless laugh. "And your current arrangement with Sloane?"

"Finished."

"Glad to hear it," Jack said bitterly. He waited, but she did not respond. "And your current scheme is...?"

"Does it matter? Sloane will be dead soon. Beyond that, who knows?" Irina sounded weary.

"You're going to kill him?"

"Of course."

"Not if I get there first."

Irina's information further cemented Sloane's guilt in Jack's eyes. He did not require reasonable doubt to condemn the man who had once been his best friend. Jack knew Arvin's patterns better than anyone alive. Sydney's death was merely the culmination of Arvin's madness; and he would never forgive himself for not neutralizing Sloane long ago, before the worst damage could be done.

Jack had circled the globe a dozen times in the last six months, tracking every hint, every rumor, of those responsible for Sydney's murder. It had finally led him to this tiny corner of Peru, to the data stored in the plant's computer. And to Irina. 

She raised an eyebrow. "You're not going anywhere in your current condition."

"Not now."  Jack stared up at the ceiling, chafing at his own infirmity. Inactivity was maddening; it led to introspection, and he did not care to examine himself or his life in any detail. Constant motion and his drive for vengeance were the only things holding him together. "Soon."

"No." The word was harsh, dropping between them like a stone. "I won't let you take this away from me. It's the only thing I can do for her–the only thing I have left."

Jack craned his neck to look at her. Her face was a study in harsh angles, her beauty overshadowed by tension, anger. By pain, he realized. Guilt. If that was indeed the face of his wife, then he knew the expression. And he knew the emotion.

"If you get him before I do, I want proof."

"Oh? I'll be sure to send you his head in a box, then," she snapped. "Can I expect the same of you?"

"That would suffice. And yes, I'll do the same if you leave a forwarding address. Or shall I simply leave it on a pike outside Moscow?"

Irina's lips twitched into an almost-smile. "There's no need for that. I'll give you my contact information."

"I'm not arrogant enough to assume I'll kill him before you do." His voice was like broken glass. But I will hold you to it, Irina."

She nodded. Irina leaned toward him, but checked herself. Rising, she rounded the bed to check the IV drip. "You'd better get some rest. Sloane is waiting."

Jack watched her with mild curiosity. She could kill him, her fingertips hovering over his morphine drip. Oddly enough, he found he didn't care. Was it because he trusted her, or because it would be a relief? He decided he ought to at least protest. "What are you doing?"

"What does it look like I'm doing?" Off his look, she said patiently: "I know you're in pain, Jack."

Jack looked up at the ceiling and sighed. "I don't want to feel anything," he said wearily.

"I know."